


through the waves of the deep

by clexawarrior, figmentalities



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, Falling In Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pirates, Romance, Violence, everybody's just REALLY gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-09-08 04:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clexawarrior/pseuds/clexawarrior, https://archiveofourown.org/users/figmentalities/pseuds/figmentalities
Summary: When Historia Reiss embarks on her father’s royal ship for the first time, she anticipates a relaxing and exciting experience. She does not expect for the ship to be overrun by pirates, nor is she prepared to be taken hostage aboard the Warhammer for an indefinite amount of time with her best friends Armin and Mikasa.While waiting for her proposed ransom, Ymir, captain of the Warhammer, intends to make her captives’ lives absolutely miserable; she predicts the three of them will prove precisely as weak and lofty as every other noble whose path she’s crossed. The moment she meets the princess, however, Ymir comes to realize her assumption about this particular trio might just be the farthest thing from the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> clexawarrior: Hey guys! So my girlfriend and I have decided to write an Attack on Titan pirate fan fiction, which we got the idea for one day while swimming haha. It started out as a joke, and then we got really serious about it. We've been working on getting this ready for a few weeks, and I'm so excited to finally be posting it! I hope you guys enjoy the first chapter :)
> 
> figmentalities: Finally here, everyone! For those of you who know me, I've been alluding to this fic for quite some time now, and I'm thrilled to finally begin posting (because who doesn't love...pirates). So, here's the Attack on Titan Gay Pirate AU nobody asked for but everyone needs. Hope you all love reading it as much as we love writing it!

Historia nearly slipped on the blood. It drenched the floorboards beneath her boots, seeped through their cracks and into the tiny abrasions in the grain until the patterns bloomed like tree branches, veins made stark against the pale wood as if the ship itself was bleeding and not the people on board. As if the ship was dying instead.

She stumbled gracelessly through the corridor, stepped over an arm splayed lifelessly across the width of the floor. She leaned against the wall for support as she made her way toward the light streaming down from the top of the stairs. The ship dipped underneath her. It sent her clinging to the railing to preserve her balance, but she barely registered any of it.

The acrid stench of metal burned her nostrils. Her lungs choked in sharp gasps of salty air as she reached the stairs and began to climb. She couldn’t breathe. It was as though she wore a veil soaked in water, suffocating her and rendering the screams around her muted and muffled and distant. As though all the oxygen had been ripped from the atmosphere.

Still, she continued to climb the steps, powered by the inexplicable feeling that she _needed_ to get above deck. Her feet moved on their own accord, legs wound manually by an invisible hand and throwing her at the mercy of some key spinning between her shoulder blades, sending her unwittingly forward.

She saw the bodies first. A few had been tossed down the stairs prior to her journey, but the number was miniscule in comparison to the amount of fallen soldiers she saw now. Streaks of blood painted crude designs against the sun-faded deck, most still wet and glinting in the daylight. Corpses stared at her with blank, vacant eyes—they wore the masks of familiar faces, violently strewn about at awkward angles in what Historia deemed the universe’s cruelest joke to date.

But those faces had names, and as she stumbled her way through the carnage, Historia found herself identifying them against her own will: Erwin, her father’s personal advisor; Hannes, one of her guards; Petra, her favorite maid.

She could feel her throat closing, her knees buckling underneath her. Ten minutes ago, she had been cracking jokes in her quarters with her best friends, sticking her tongue out in Hannes’ direction as he playfully tugged at her hair. Now Hannes was dead, and her friends…

As if on cue, a familiar voice cut through the dazed fog clouding her mind, a strangled shout that sent her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach.

Armin.

Fighting through the panic obstructing her airway, Historia raked her eyes over the scene before her, skimmed over the bodies that remained upright and moving until she spotted a familiar shock of blonde hair.

Any relief she may have felt at discovering her best friend alive diminished the moment she registered the severity of his situation. A burly young man, rugged and threatening and huge, gripped a blood-stained sword tightly in one hand as he inched closer, backing Armin toward the edge of the ship. Armin had a shaky grip on a sword of his own, one Historia knew he neither wanted nor learned how to use. He thrust it out in front of him, some desperate attempt to protect himself.

The pirate merely laughed and took another menacing step forward. Blinding sunlight refracted off the blade he aimed toward Armin’s throat.

Something inside Historia snapped, then, yanking her to the surface as though by her hair: painfully and shockingly quick. Suddenly the sounds were too loud, the edges of every object and movement in her vision sharp and vivid. Hot anger surged beneath her diaphragm, and it was with this sudden influx of energy that she ran, screaming, a force of fury and desperation until she’d thrown herself between her best friend and his attacker.

She just registered Armin’s terrified blue eyes locking onto her as she yanked the sword from his hand and swung it at the pirate. 

“Don’t you _fucking touch him_,” she snarled. She thought she saw the man’s eyes widen a moment, and she heard Armin’s breath hitch behind her.

“Historia!” he shouted.

“Go!” she fired back, keeping her eyes locked on the man glaring down at her. “Go find Mikasa and hide!” She straightened her elbows, baring her teeth. The sword was heavier than she’d imagined, and the metal of the hilt felt surprisingly cold against her sweating palms. She hated the way her arms quivered under its weight as she pointed it at the man before her, hated just how obvious it was that she’d never held a sword before either.

To her dismay, the pirate began laughing again, a low, demeaning chuckle that gave Historia the sudden urge to slice the smirk from his face with her blade. “So, the princess has come to fight,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Rather unbecoming of a royal.”

Historia eyed the weapon in his hand, hyperaware of Armin’s body heat against her back.

“What else am I supposed to do?” she asked. She injected as much venom into her voice as she could before continuing and almost laughed with relief when she heard it come out steady and firm. “Sit back and watch while you slaughter all my people?”

“It’s what any other noble would do.” The man shrugged, infuriatingly nonchalant. “It’s what your father would do.”

“Guess it’s a good thing you got me, then.”

“Historia—” Armin’s fingertips grazed her arm.

“Go, Armin!” The shout was feral and scraped at Historia’s throat as she pulled herself away from Armin and swung the sword back behind her, gaining frightening momentum. She knew he wanted to protect her just as much as she did him, but the moment her blade collided with that of the pirate’s and sent the shock reverberating through her arm, she knew if someone was going to die saving their best friend today, it was going to be her. 

She couldn’t fight this man and live. Historia knew that much. She didn’t know how to, wasn’t sure she even wanted to, but she would fight until his sword cut the life from her lungs if it meant Armin would live. If it meant she’d managed to save _someone_.

Her impending defeat only became that much more obvious when the flat of her opponent’s blade struck against her knuckles with a blinding pain that sent her screaming. Her own weapon clattered harmlessly to the deck. Historia stumbled. She thought she heard Armin shouting behind her and attempted to turn around to look for him. She felt the hilt of the pirate’s sword connect with her skull instead.

The world grew quiet. Stars erupted in her vision, a chaotic array of lights and black spots accompanying the jarring pain in her head. She felt herself falling, felt her captor’s arms wrapping around her and pulling her against his chest, the heat of his breath as he spoke into her ear. Only later would she recall his exact words: “You think the captain wants you dead? That’d be too kind a fate for you, wouldn’t you say?”

Something warm trickled down the side of Historia’s face. She fought feebly to escape the iron grip holding her in place, but the world was spinning, her thoughts muddled, and she surrendered herself to the realization that this man wasn’t going to mercifully end her life the way she’d hoped. No, he was going to keep her alive, and it was the last thing she wanted after witnessing the deaths of so many people she loved.

The pirate began walking long before she realized he was carrying her. The remains of her father’s ship transited her periphery in a blur of shapes and dark, deadly colors. The guttural shouts and clangs of metal blades were quieting around her, the attack drawing to a gradual and devastating end, and she realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach that most of the people she had sailed with were now dead.

Desperately trying to blink the world into focus, she just barely registered the fact that Armin had disappeared. She couldn’t spot his blonde hair or slight build anywhere, and the fear struck her suddenly that perhaps he hadn’t escaped at all. That he’d been killed the moment she’d lost her battle and discarded carelessly onto the growing pile of cadavers instead.

_No_, Historia thought. The word trod heavily in her mind, as though wading sluggishly through brackish swamp water. No, he couldn’t be dead. Mikasa either. They were the ones who were supposed to survive this, not her.

Not her.

She realized she had been carried onto the enemies’ ship too many moments too late. Her vision swam, her head throbbed with every jostling step her captor took, and it was with an overwhelming surge of panic that she concluded she was a prisoner here. Isolated and alone. She’d never see her friends or family or home again.

The sudden clarity shocked her, urging her into action. She screamed first, a high-pitched, desperate, throat-raking shriek that cut through her own daze and took her captor momentarily off guard. His grip on her slackened only slightly, though, and before she could wriggle free of his grasp, he tightened his hold on her. Iron arms pressed painfully against her ribs and morphed her screams from those of rage to pain.

It didn’t stop her. The man carrying her could hit her with the hilt of his sword again, she thought, and still she wouldn’t cease kicking and screaming against him, fighting desperately to connect the heel of her foot with something soft and vulnerable. But her short legs couldn’t find purchase anywhere effective and, undeterred, her captor continued to carry her as though she weighed nothing.

The sun disappeared. Historia opened her eyes to find they’d delved into the depths of the halls and corridors below deck. Too late for her to rush back to her father’s ship or cast herself overboard even if she did manage to get away. She screamed again, kicked out violently, and laughed aloud when it crossed her mind that she should’ve practiced combat with Mikasa all those years ago the way her father had suggested. Not once in her life had she ever expected to regret refusing the lessons, to one day wish she’d trained to defend herself rather than dismissed the activity as boring and unnecessary. If she had, she might very well have bested this man who’d so easily overtaken her.

With nearly every fiber of her being, she hoped her friends had made it out of the attack alive, but there was a selfish part of her that longed for them to be with her now. To have Mikasa’s strength and Armin’s strategic mind by her side. Mostly, however, she ached for their company. There wasn’t anything she wanted less in the world than to suffer her ordeal alone.

“Reiner,” someone called behind her. “Hurry and throw her in here.”

“Let me go, you _bitch!_” Historia shrieked. She threw her head back, relishing in the pained shout that erupted when it struck what she guessed was her captor’s chin.

“Gladly,” he grunted in her ear. Suddenly, she was airborne, flung haphazardly to the side and into the rusting cell awaiting her. Her elbow connected hard with the wooden floorboards beneath her, and she clenched her teeth to avoid yelping at the pain.

“Let me out of here!” Scrambling to her feet, Historia launched herself at the bars in the gate the pirates had slammed shut behind her. “You can’t do this! _Let me go!_”

“Historia!”

The familiar voice halted her in her tracks. Warm fingers wrapped around her forearm, and her heart leapt into her throat as she whipped around to face the two additional prisoners contained in the cell with her: Mikasa and Armin.

* * *

Ymir paced the length of her quarters, listening idly to the sounds her boots made every time they clacked against the hardwood underneath them. Her fingers worried at the frays in her sleeve cuff, hands clasped behind her back to maintain an air of authority even in solitude. 

There was an inexplicable exhilaration that went along with a raid. An airy tingling in the gut, an inability to completely suppress the kind of grin that led to sore cheeks and bubbly giggles. But Ymir wasn’t smiling this time. This alone was cause enough for her concern. 

She hadn’t gone along on the raid. Instead, she’d awakened that morning plagued by an unexpected anxiety that the mission would prove more dangerous than anticipated, that it might not have a favorable outcome. They’d organized the attack for weeks, carefully observing the Eldian kingdom’s royal family until they’d learned of the travel plans and tracked their movements to their current coordinates. The plan was supposedly foolproof: catch the royal ship broadside, cut down anyone who opposes, drag the princess aboard, and send out a ransom. Surely they’d executed tougher missions than this. 

Somehow, it didn’t matter. All the reassurance in the world wouldn’t quell Ymir’s unease until she received word that her people had been successful. No amount of chewing at her bottom lip would stop the questions swarming her mind. What if they had miscalculated the skill the king’s men possessed? What if they’d received false information and the princess wasn’t even on board?

A gentle rapping at the door stopped her in her tracks. 

“Come in,” Ymir called. She watched intently as the door opened and a familiar mop of red hair appeared in the doorway. Floch gave her a curt nod. 

“Captain,” he said. 

“What do you have to report?” Ymir took a step forward, then paused. The last thing she wanted was to come off too eager, even in the presence of the quartermaster. 

The smile that spread across Floch’s lips placated her nerves significantly. “Braun easily overtook the princess and has locked her in the brig,” he rattled off, squaring his shoulders. His voice carried no small amount of pride in it, and Ymir had to physically stop herself from heaving a visible sigh of relief. “We killed most everyone else aboard the royal ship, save some poor bastard. We sent him back to report the news of the princess’ kidnapping, along with instructions the king must meet to see her safely returned. There did, however, arise a kind of...development.” 

The relief Ymir felt faltered. “What kind of development?” 

Floch must have sensed her trepidation because he took a reassuring step forward, flashing her a smirk that told her what he would say next would be in her best interest. “Historia was not the only child of nobility on board. She was traveling with two companions, one directly descended from the Ackerman family and the other an Arlert, both of high power and influence in Eldia.” 

Ymir arched an inquisitive brow. Finally, for the first time that day, she felt the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You mean—?”

“We don’t just have one valuable hostage.” Floch nodded. The smirk splayed across his face was contagious. “We have three.” 

“Shit.” Ymir let herself sigh this time. Leaning back, she supported herself against her desk and crossed her ankles in front of her. She released a sudden, ringing laugh. “You know what we need now, right?” Floch tilted his head a little, questioning, and she continued. “A party. Organize one at once. I’ll bring the news to the rest of the crew. Everyone aboard the Warhammer deserves to celebrate like kings tonight.” 

Floch’s smile matched hers. “Right away,” he said, nodding. 

Ymir could feel the smile spreading to her eyes. A curious warmth bloomed through her chest, traveled through her arms and into her fingertips, and suddenly she had the urge to grab for her sword and slice away at something. If whatever pathetic, sniveling mess of a person her crew had left alive truly succeeded at getting word back to King Reiss now, the rewards she’d reap would be overwhelming. Boundless, even. 

She thought about the prisoners they had locked away, levels below her feet, and grinned. She hoped they enjoyed eating slop as much as they loved their families’ extravagant feasts, that they liked sleeping on hardwood flooring more than the luxurious beds they’d left behind. If she failed to accomplish anything else, she’d at least make sure they were completely and utterly miserable. There wasn’t anything she loathed more than pampered, weak, arrogant nobility. 

“And, Floch,” she spoke up as he made to exit the room. When he turned to glance at her over his shoulder, she continued. “Make sure you place Kirschtein in charge of watching them tonight. Braun deserves to celebrate with the rest of us.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clexawarrior: Thank you guys so much for all the comments and kudos we received on the last chapter. We both really appreciated hearing your feedback and thoughts about the first chapter and can't wait to hear what you think about this one! Enjoy your next dose of pirate/princess Yumihisu!
> 
> figmentalities: Uh... what she said. AH, THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE, GUYS! I'm too excited to hold back from posting again within a week, so here's chapter 2. LOVE YOU ALL!

“Let us _out!_” Historia struck her fist against the metal bars. Having already screamed her voice hoarse, every word she forced past her vocal cords now came out strained and rasping. “You can’t keep us locked in here forever!”

But they could, and she knew it. If she sat idle and obedient, the savages aboard this ship might find themselves content to ignore their prisoners and keep them locked away until they died. No. She’d long conceded if she was going to die here, she sure as hell wouldn’t do so willingly. If she had to, Historia would fight against the pirates until she breathed her last.

She slammed her hands into the cell door again and winced at the sharp sting the force threw into her palms. She fought not to groan at the pain the movements ricocheted through her skull. Her head still throbbed from the hit she’d taken—Mikasa had done her best to clean away the blood, but the damage had been done. Her stomach rolled every time she moved. The discomfort alone was enough to make anyone sit down and give up for the night. Still, Historia refused to ease her verbal onslaught. She wouldn’t until every person aboard this goddamn ship knew she was there.

“Enough already.” The young man stationed outside the cell groaned. He raked his fingers through his disheveled, ash-colored hair. “I’m tired of listening to this shit.”

Historia couldn’t help but feel impressed. How he had listened to her this long without a word, she didn’t know. Even Armin and Mikasa had protested her initially, but they’d given up at least twenty minutes ago. She was thankful, however, to have finally gotten a reaction out of him.

“You can’t make me stop,” Historia said. She attempted to clear her throat. “The only way to do that is to kill me, and I know the captain wants me alive.”

The guard finally spun around in his chair to face her. A scowl graced his long, unique features. “That may be true,” he snarled, “but the captain hasn’t said a word about your little friends in there with you. So maybe you’d like to keep your mouth shut to ensure nothing bad happens to them.”

Historia clamped her lips together. The rust buildup on the metal bars scraped against her hands as she curled her fingers tightly around them. Armin. Mikasa.

She turned around and looked at the two of them, sitting quietly in the back corner of their cell. Mikasa was staring at her, dark brows drawn together in a strange combination of anger, pity, and exhaustion. She had one leg splayed out in front of her and the other tilted to the side until her knee rested against Armin’s. She was never one to utter too many words of affection, content to display it through physical contact instead. Looking at her now, Historia knew Mikasa was injecting all the comforting energy she still had into that single, seemingly insignificant touch. Armin, who had long drawn his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them, had lifted his head the moment the guard uttered the threat. He now met Historia’s gaze with an unreadable expression.

Something stirred in her chest then—an overprotective fondness laced with rage. Rage toward the person who’d thrown them there, who dared threaten to hurt the two people most important to her, the two childhood friends she deemed closer to her than family. It was true she cared little about her own life, but there was nothing she wanted more than to see Armin and Mikasa through this unharmed.

She hated this guard. She hated that he’d known to use her friends’ safety against her, found a way to finally get under her skin and push her into submission. Still, she found confusion forming among the other emotions thrashing chaotically within her. If she was the only person the captain wanted to keep alive, why take Armin and Mikasa? Could they really be locked away with her simply for leverage, for the pirates to threaten in order to ensure her cooperation?

Somehow, that made everything so much worse. For the first time that day, Historia felt a stinging in her eyes, a painful knot tightening in her abused throat. The last of her shock had worn away, and she could feel the reality of her situation sinking in. The weight it threw into her chest sent her staggering backward as though someone had struck her.

Outside the cell, the guard tore his gaze from her and lowered his eyes to his lap. 

Hands were on Historia suddenly, tugging gently at her wrist, and she turned to find Mikasa pulling her into an embrace. Finding a curious comfort in their height difference, she buried her face into her best friend’s chest as the first sob escaped her.

“We’ll find a way out of this,” Mikasa whispered into her ear. The warmth of her arms—sturdy and strong from years of martial arts training, yet somehow so incredibly gentle—grounded Historia a little. For the first time that day, she felt safer.

* * *

It was hours before anyone said anything again. Historia sat listening to the subtle sounds around her—the groaning infrastructure of the ship as it dipped in the ocean, the joints in the guard’s legs and arms cracking as he stretched, Armin’s occasional deep breath he sucked in through his nose every time the anxiety washed over him again. She found herself almost lulled by the small noises the tiny stone made in her hand as she scraped it against the floor beneath her, carving jagged patterns into the wood.

For a moment, she entertained the idea of prying the floorboards up and crawling into the space beneath them, freeing herself from the cell. But she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. They would still be on the ship, miles from land. Historia began cutting into the wood with more pressure now as the anger built inside her again. There was no escaping.

“I wish I could kill every last person on this ship,” Historia growled, just loud enough for her companions to hear. Mikasa, resting her leg against Historia’s, gave her a small nudge with her knee. 

“Yelling about it certainly wasn’t going to accomplish anything,” she said.

“I just want to know what the hell they want with us.”

Mikasa lifted an eyebrow. “And you think they’re going to tell us?” 

Historia bit her lip. She wasn’t about to admit the additional motivation behind all the screaming she’d inflicted on her throat. That she’d hoped, by some miracle, she’d annoy one of the crew members into accidentally revealing the intent behind their kidnapping. Instead, she gave the floorboard another good scrape.

“This wasn’t how the trip was supposed to go,” she responded eventually. “It was supposed to be exciting, a new experience for all of us, and they took it away. They took—” She paused, trying to push back against the familiar tightness in her throat. _Everyone_, she wanted to say. _They took everyone away from me._

Instead, she finally managed: “I hate the thought of giving up.”

“No one said anything about giving up,” Armin whispered. He kept his eyes on the floor, watching Historia hack away at the wood through heavy lids. He looked even paler than usual. “But we might have to wait for the right opportunity to present itself.”

“Too bad there isn’t actually a way out of here. Not that I can see, anyway.” Mikasa blew a stray strand of black hair out of her eyes, and Historia couldn’t help but crack a smile. Though her friends were both realists, Mikasa liked to weigh the pessimistic point of view when Armin’s optimism surfaced, and vice versa. Ever balancing the other out to look at a situation from all angles. Historia knew they needed these perspectives now more than they’d ever needed them in the past.

“We could find one. If we’re smart about it,” Armin countered. “But in order to plan something to the best of our ability, we might have to sit back and observe our captors’ movements and patterns for a while.”

Historia nodded. Mikasa was right—the pirates would never reveal the plans they had for them deliberately—but Armin wasn’t wrong either. It wouldn’t be entirely impossible for them to find out for themselves, would it? Not if they bided their time wisely, not if they were careful. Historia had overwhelming faith in Armin’s ability to think his way out of their current situation.

It was only a matter of staying alive long enough for him to succeed.

“Armin.” Historia let the stone tumble from her hand. It clattered softly against the hardwood, its own little swan song. “Are you okay?”

Armin finally lifted his eyes to hers, and she could see the shadows rimming his lids more clearly. He looked exhausted, ill-at-ease, but he nodded anyway. “Just tired,” he muttered. His hand trembled as he lifted it to his face and brushed the blond fringe from his brow. “And hungry.”

A _slam _reverberated across the room, startling Historia. Armin’s head snapped to the side. Mikasa visibly tensed. At least two sets of footsteps, heavy and uneven, stomped down the stairs near the far wall, and Historia shot up from the floor to get a better look at the sudden, unexpected arrivals.

She recognized the first man’s stocky, muscular build. Then she spotted his head of sandy hair, caught sight of the familiar, unattractive scowl, and her blood boiled in her veins. It was the man who had attacked her and thrown her here in the first place.

Historia didn’t recognize his companion—he was a tall, slender man with dark hair and heavy eyes. The thought struck her that perhaps this was the ship’s captain.

“Here ya go, bilge rats,” the first man said. He slipped a tray underneath the cell door, and Historia crinkled her nose at the clump of _something_ thrown carelessly atop it. She knew it was supposed to be food, but it looked closer to the gray, bloated remains of some drowned rodent topped with watered-down porridge than something edible. It was as though the universe had heard Armin’s words and immediately opted to play as horrific a joke on him as it possibly could. “Enjoy the feast.” 

The two men chuckled to themselves as Historia leaped over the tray and gripped the cell bars tightly in her fists. In her periphery, she watched Mikasa reach over and pull the tray toward her.

“Are you the captain?” Historia demanded of the man in front of her.

“Me?” The blond chuckled again. “I’m not the captain, Sweetheart. Though some days I think I ought to be.” He thought he was incredibly funny. It only served to further feed the disgust churning in Historia’s gut.

“I was talking to your friend,” she spat.

“_Him?_” The pirate made a horrible sound, a low chortle that made Historia want to slip from between the cell bars and sink her teeth into his throat. “Wrong again, little bitch.”

“Then take me to him. I want to speak with your captain.” 

Both men burst into laughter this time, cruel cackles seeping with ridicule. Historia tightened her grip on the bars and bit down on the inside of her cheek until her eyes watered. She hadn’t realized she could hate this man any more than she already did, but as she stared up at him now—all sweaty and conceited and utterly disgusting—it took all the willpower in her tiny body to keep her voice steady and firm.

“I’m serious.”

“Oh. Did you hear that, Reiner? She’s serious.” The taller man spoke for the first time. He shot Historia a weary smile, falsely apologetic. “We’re so sorry. The thought of allowing wealthy scum like you to speak with our captain just seemed so goddamn ridiculous, we assumed you had to be joking.”

Historia tasted blood in her mouth.

“You ain’t gonna see our captain.” The stocky pirate, Reiner, turned toward the stairway and smirked. “He’s a very busy man.”

This sent his companion laughing again as they exited. Historia waited to hear the door above slam shut before hitting the cell door with the heel of her hand. The _clang_ it made only satisfied her somewhat. She eyed the guard still perched on his chair and noted the way he shook his head, eyes staring off in the direction of the stairs. His reaction surprised her.

“You don’t like them either, do you?” she dared to ask.

Without a word, the guard shot her another scowl before averting his gaze toward the stairway again. Historia couldn’t say she hadn’t expected this.

Sighing, she ran her tongue over the wound she’d inflicted on her inner cheek, then released the door from her vice grip. She glanced over her shoulder, spotted Armin and Mikasa already poking at the food festering on the tray and felt her own stomach growl painfully. She had to eat, she knew she did, but whatever it was those pirates had slipped them wasn’t food. It couldn’t be.

“What is it?” she asked, lowering herself to her knees beside them.

“I think it’s stale bread covered in old oatmeal.” Armin’s voice was thick, as if it took every ounce of strength he had left in his body to keep his throat from rejecting the food. “I…There might be beer in this too.”

He was right, as usual. Historia could smell the yeast from where she sat. “I’m not eating that,” she said.

“You have to keep your strength up.” Mikasa slid the tray a few inches in Historia’s direction. “Refusing to eat isn’t going to accomplish anything right now.”

“If it helps,” Armin added, cheek bulging with the food he attempted to chew, “it doesn’t taste like much if you don’t breathe through your nose.”

“It doesn’t, but thanks.” Historia attempted a smile, but let it fall the moment she reached for the tray and lifted what must have been a chunk of bread. It was rock solid. “Would it have killed them to give us their leftovers? Something…_edible?_” She growled. “Or, at the very least, send someone down here who _isn’t_ a complete barbarian?”

Armin swallowed, gave a small shudder. Historia thought she saw him fight back a gag. “Don’t let their behavior get to you,” he murmured. “If we waste our time and energy fuming over the way they treat us, we’re only letting them win. They’re arrogant and stupid. We might be able to use it to our advantage.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” Armin shook his head. His shoulders slumped, and Historia wondered if he might fall asleep sitting up. “But we’ll think of something.”

Historia sucked in a deep breath, savored the relief the sudden influx of oxygen brought to her lungs, and attempted to calm herself down somewhat. Armin was right again. She knew he was. Having grown up soft and incredibly caring, Armin had been bullied relentlessly as a child. He could have let it harden him, let it frost over the warmth in his heart, but instead he’d used his intellect to become one of the youngest, most respected strategists in the Eldian kingdom. If there was anyone who knew just how to handle humanity’s innate cruelty, how to outsmart those who inflict harm, it was Armin.

“You’re right,” she admitted.

“Mikasa’s also right about you needing to eat,” Armin pointed out. He smiled a little, sympathetic as Mikasa nudged the tray toward her again. 

Historia stared at the clump of bread in her hand, then huffed a harsh breath through her nose. “Fine.”

* * *

Ymir walked the length of the Warhammer, beginning at the bow and slowly making her way toward the stern. She listened as the waves crashed against the prow, steady and soothing, then to the _clinks_ and shouts of the crew as they manipulated the rigging. She caught the wide-eyed expression on Marco’s freckled face as he manned the helm with Annie. Mina balanced on the ratlines of the mizzenmast, working to adjust its sails for the night’s pending winds. It was this blend of audible excitement and calm that stirred a kind of elation in Ymir, budding in her chest and spreading up to her lips as she smiled. Sailing served as a kind of drug for her, but the feverish elation buzzing in the air this evening had been heightened tenfold by the success they’d achieved that morning.

Preparations for the party were well underway at this point. From across the width of the deck, Ymir could see Conny’s short stature and close-cropped hair as he carried spare chairs from some of the cabins toward the mess area, readying it for the vast amounts of food and alcohol the crew would place there soon. Eren, one of the newest recruits, worked diligently to swab the floor closest to the quarterdeck.

For a moment, Ymir wondered where their other newest recruit had run off to, already working through a list of potential punishments in her head, before remembering she’d already punished him—if Jean was serving his sentence correctly, he’d still be in the brig keeping watch over the prisoners.

This made her smile. Kill two birds with one stone, she figured. Though there was a part of her that wanted to delve into the depths of the ship and torture the prisoners herself, Ymir refused to grant them the privilege of speaking with the ship’s captain. Not now, at least. She did, however, find some comfort in her decision to let Reiner and Bertholdt bring the princess her first meal. She knew just how cruel those young men could be, and it pleased her to no foreseeable end.

“Eyes on the floor, Jaeger,” she commanded, tone cool and casual to the point of intimidating as she noted the way Eren eyed her. She hid the smirk tugging on her lip when he violently yanked his gaze back to the mop in his hands. Though she had an unfortunate knack for remembering the first names of each and every one of her crew members, Ymir had long decided the majority of them didn’t deserve the luxury of such intimacy. The few who did had proven themselves invaluable to her, and this was no small feat to accomplish. 

She kept silent upon entering the kitchen. Instead, she found herself content to watch Sasha meander around the cabin, scrutinizing the pots she’d set atop the woodburning stove while humming some unfamiliar tune. She raised an eyebrow when she spotted the half-eaten potato in Sasha’s fist and smirked again.

“Braus,” she called. Her voice boomed across the scarcely occupied room. Sasha shrieked, nearly leaping out of her skin as she spun to face Ymir and almost dropped her potato in the process.

“Captain!” she squeaked.

Ymir gestured toward Sasha’s hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I…” Sasha brushed her auburn bangs from her eyes with the back of a trembling hand. “I was tasting it. Gotta make sure it’s good to serve at the celebration tonight, yeah?”

“And eating an entire potato is ‘tasting’ it?”

Sasha squirmed. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, until the image of a teething toddler teased Ymir’s mind. The poor girl’s face was flushed, her skin reddening down to her chest. Ymir elected to steer the conversation herself.

“Even with the influx of fresh rations we received today, you of all people know just how limited our food supplies are,” she said, lowering her voice to a biting tone. “Correct?”

Sasha made a tiny sound at the back of her throat. “Yes,” she finally managed.

It was a pathetic attempt, but Ymir accepted it. “If I catch you eating like this again, Braus, know that you’ll be tossed from the kitchen and made to swab the piss and salt buildup from the decks with Jaeger faster than your little dim-witted brain can process.” Ymir took a step forward. “Now, get back to work and replace whatever you’ve eaten before serving anything.”

Sasha saluted then. Straightening her posture with a terrified swiftness, she threw her right fist against her chest. “Yes, Captain!”

It wasn’t until she’d slipped from the kitchen that Ymir let herself chuckle at the chaotic energy with which Sasha scrambled back to the oven, laugh at the reaction she had previously elicited from Eren. If there was anything Ymir enjoyed as much as she did sailing, it was igniting fear into the hearts of every poor bastard who looked her way.


	3. Chapter 3

The exuberant chaos four levels above shook the very infrastructure of the ship. The sounds reverberated through the brig. They created abhorrent noise pollution that cut into Armin’s head and tugged him once again from the pull of sleep. The party had started what must have been at least four hours ago, yet the pirates showed no signs of letting up any time soon.

It was with a heavy soul and even heavier eyelids that Armin concluded they’d celebrate through the night, happy to neglect most of their duties on the ship until dawn broke over the horizon and the sun painted breathtaking colors into the morning sky. He could picture them now, stumbling drunkenly over their own feet as they slipped back into their seafaring routines, one pirate climbing up into the crow’s nest to nurse their impending hangover there.

Armin thought about the sunrise, how he wouldn’t see it from the cage that imprisoned him, and bit back a groan. It was going to be a long night.

He peeled one eyelid open first, then the other. They felt dry and swollen, and he blinked repeatedly in the hopes of lubricating them. He’d functioned perfectly fine on less sleep than this on more than one occasion, but the stress and trauma he and his friends had experienced that day had taken its toll. Were it not for the raucous activities permeating every level of the ship, Armin would’ve probably passed out hours ago.

He curled farther in on himself where he lay on his side, head pillowed in the crook of his arm. It could’ve been a comfortable position, but the hard floor dug painfully into the bones of his hip and ribs. The pressure in his shoulder had long since cut the circulation from his hand. He didn’t bother moving it. At least _something_ would get some sleep tonight, he figured. He almost laughed when the thought crossed his mind, despite himself. Despite everything.

Over the curve of Historia’s hip, he spotted the guard sitting slumped in the chair outside their cell. He supported his elbows against his knees, chin cupped in his hands. His eyes were closed, but the wrinkle in his brow and uneven breaths told Armin he was still awake. Armin watched him a moment through his drooping eyelids and wondered idly how deeply the young man might sleep if he truly did nod off.

A particularly heavy _thud _resounded from above, followed by a torrent of shouts and rumbling laughter that forced Armin’s eyelids open again. He felt Mikasa jolt behind him, where her knee pressed against his spine. The guard jerked upright with an indignant grunt. Armin watched him shoot a vexed glare up at the ceiling.

Historia made a sound that fell somewhere between a groan and a whine as she finally stirred, pushing herself up to a seated position. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could actually get some sleep?” she asked, eyes raking over both Armin and Mikasa. Her blonde hair fell over her face and hid half her scowl. The guard shot her a glance out the corner of his eye. “Because we’ll probably die if we don’t.”

“_Should_ you even be sleeping?” Mikasa asked, her voice quiet and thick with concern. She moved against Armin’s back, and when she spoke next, it sounded as if she were hovering over him. “That hit you took to your head—”

“I don’t have a concussion, Mikasa.” Historia raked her fingers through her hair, pushing it from her eyes. Her voice was firm, matter of fact, but gentle. She and Armin had agreed long ago that it was impossible to feel angry with Mikasa, to harbor any frustration toward her deep, genuine concern for them.

When she spoke next, however, she raised her voice and directed it toward the guard. “You know, for a group supposedly intent on keeping me alive, the lot of you don’t seem all that concerned about the mortality rates associated with sleep deprivation.”

Armin almost cracked a smile when he caught sight of the guard’s expression as he turned to look at Historia, equal parts bewildered and irritated. Releasing a rather juvenile huff, the young man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“One night won’t kill you,” he said.

Armin knew this. He also knew Historia knew this, but the way she stared at the guard made it clear she was gauging his reactions as well, trying to push his tolerance. This would be the perfect way to do it—Armin couldn’t imagine the guard himself would be getting any sleep tonight either. No doubt he was just as pissed about it as they were. From the beginning, he’d given Armin the impression that guarding the three of them was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

“Why weren’t you invited to the party?” Historia asked.

Armin sighed. Though he couldn’t deny the guard’s reactions were entertaining, to say the least, a part of him wished they’d all remained silent, wished they’d given the guard a chance to doze. It may have granted them the opportunity to whisper in private, to plan something. Perhaps even discover some means of escape.

The guard didn’t answer. Instead, he turned around in his chair, arms still crossed over his chest like an aggrieved child. From where he lay, Armin could see the challenge brighten Historia’s eyes. 

“It’s obvious you don’t want to be down here with us,” she continued, inching herself ever closer to the cell bars. “My guess is, you’re here because you’re in trouble with the captain.”

Armin was watching the guard now with her, and he didn’t have to turn around to know Mikasa was doing the same. With these words, Historia had thrown down the gauntlet.

There was something about defiance and rebellion that made Historia look uncomfortably stunning—the provocation brought a pretty flush of color to her cheeks and a brightness to her already breathtaking blue eyes. She’d never directed this expression toward Armin himself (save during games and their occasional friendly battle of wits, thank the gods), but there was something about it that made him feel both excited and terrified every time. It meant she was about to completely obliterate her opponent and knew it.

“Did you get in trouble with the captain?” Historia pressed.

The guard met her eye, stony-faced.

“You _did_.” Historia feigned a little gasp. She scooted herself even closer to the cell bars now, leaning forward against her hands. “You’re really stuck here guarding us against your will, aren’t you? What did you _do?_”

“It’s none of your business.” The guard broke his silence. Armin added a tally mark to Historia’s name on his mental score board. “You should be grateful it’s me down here with you and not someone worse. Someone who’d treat you like complete shit.”

Historia frowned. She stuck her bottom lip out just slightly more than usual. She would milk the theatrics for all they were worth. “You haven’t exactly _not _treated us like shit,” she argued. “Doesn’t anyone on this ship have a lick of empathy?”

“You think they would send one of the _weaker_ bastards to guard their prisoners?”

“Weaker?” Historia hummed. “So, the weaker of the species are the ones unafraid to exercise kindness? Seems contradictory.”

“Seems _you’ve_ forgotten the little fact that we can harm your friends at the drop of a hat if you don’t shut your mouth.” The guard leaned forward, glowering at Historia, but his tone sounded too tinged with weariness to make the threat feel viable. Still, Armin felt Mikasa place a warm hand protectively onto his shoulder.

“Historia…” Mikasa began.

“Well, if you’re not one of those ‘weaker ones,’” Historia continued, “you should have no problem going upstairs and demanding to be relieved for a little while.”

The guard laughed this time, but the sound was bereft of any real humor. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Will you _stop_ with the goddamn questions?” In a sudden rush of infuriated energy, the guard threw the side of his fist against one of the bars. The sound was jarring, louder than Armin had expected. Mikasa tightened the grip she had on his shoulder. Even Historia backed away slightly as the guard continued: “_I’ve had enough_.”

Armin agreed. Though he found it potentially helpful to see exactly how to antagonize this pirate—perhaps they could use his volatile qualities to their advantage later—he wasn’t sure getting the person watching them for an indeterminant amount of time to hate them was the smartest course of action.

Lifting the arm not pinned numbingly beneath his head, Armin reached out and tugged at the cuff of Historia’s sleeve. “Historia—”

His words were cut off, however, by the sound of footsteps coming from the far wall. Taken by surprise, their guard’s eyes shot to the stairway, where another young man appeared. He had a tray balanced in both hands as he entered the brig, a little unsteady on his feet.

Something shifted in the guard’s demeanor suddenly, and he stood with a kind of forced nonchalance. “Oh, good,” he said, stretching his arms above his head and twisting his torso until Armin heard joints popping. “You must be my replacement.”

“Replacement? What the fuck?” The other boy took a step back. It occurred to Armin he might be a little drunk. “Aren’t you down here for, like, insubordination or something?”

“_No._” The guard bristled. His voice came out harsh and biting, all traces of his attempted impassivity dissolved completely.

The newcomer cocked his head. “I thought you were being punished for talking back—”

“Oh, my gods. _Shut the fuck up._” The guard kicked out, and the chair went clattering to the floor between them.

Despite his exhaustion, Armin found his interest piqued. The guard had completely lost what little composure he still had in him—whoever this new boy was, he’d managed to do in less than two sentences what Historia hadn’t quite managed to do in a handful.

Lifting his head, Armin wriggled his fingers a little and braced himself for the impending pins-and-needles sensation to flood his arm. He attempted to ease himself up with the other and grunted against the painful protests his fatigued joints shot through his body. Mikasa was pressing herself to him a second later, helping him to a seated position, and as he leaned gratefully against her for support, he suddenly became aware of how silent the room had fallen. Realizing the sound he’d made must have distracted the pirates, he lifted his eyes to find the newcomer eyeing him curiously.

A second later, the boy took a defensive step toward the guard. “What the hell is your _problem?_” He slurred his words a little.

The guard jabbed a finger in Historia’s direction. “_She_ is my problem.”

“She’s just sitting there.”

“She’s driving me _insane_.” The guard gave the fallen chair another kick with the toe of his boot. “_You_ try living down here with the unbearable bitch.”

“No.” The boy laughed, though he too didn’t seem to find the situation all that hilarious. “You know why? Because it’s not _my_ fucking punishment, _Jean._”

Armin winced against the awful feeling in his arm as the blood continued to rush into it, but he made a mental note to remember their guard’s name all the same. Jean. He wasn’t sure how to use the information to their advantage, but he was glad to finally have a name to go with the long, sharp features constantly glowering in their direction.

Jean’s muscles tensed, the hands at his sides clenched into fists. It gave Armin the impression he hadn’t wanted the prisoners to learn anything about him. He seemed to consider his next reaction for a moment, then shoved the chair.

“I’m talking to the captain,” he said, spinning on his heel and marching for the stairs.

“Like hell you are.” The other boy fumbled with the tray in one hand as he grabbed Jean’s arm. “You can’t leave the prisoners down here alone.”

“Watch me.” Jean yanked his arm back with a force that sent the other pirate staggering a little. He didn’t seem to notice as he released an irate grunt and proceeded to stomp up the stairs.

The boy stood rooted to the spot, staring up the stairwell with an expression that looked as though someone had told him they’d had sex with his mother. Historia, who’d watched the scene from where she knelt at the bars, glanced over her shoulder at Armin and Mikasa. There were unspoken questions written on her pretty face, but Armin didn’t have an answer. It was impossible to guess why this young man had stumbled down into the brig, impossible to guess what the hell would happen next.

“You don’t seem to like each other very much.” Historia spoke up for the first time since his arrival. There was no challenge in her voice this time, only the same intrigue with which Armin found himself staring at the newcomer.

Shoulders slumping in surrender, the boy trekked over toward the cell and lowered himself down just outside the door. “Yeah. He’s kind of impossible,” he mumbled. It wasn’t until he slid the tray underneath the bars that Armin saw what it contained.

His eyes widened. Scraps of slightly charred meat and browning apple slices littered the surface—table scraps at most, but edible all the same. Armin’s stomach churned again, mouth watering back toward his tonsils.

Historia looked just as shocked. “What is—?”

“I know what they gave you earlier,” the boy said, shrugging. “Can’t imagine you’re not starving.”

Armin wanted to question him, but the words wouldn’t come. There had to be some kind of ulterior motive, he surmised. This boy didn’t need to stay with them—it wasn’t his job, nor did it seem he’d wanted to listen to Jean. Why stay? Why give them food? Why show them any sort of kindness, show them anything other than hatred?

Historia backed away from the bars with the tray, sliding the food over toward the center of the cell where Mikasa and Armin sat. She had her eyes on the pirate still. Armin could see the suspicion in her eyes, all the questions she wanted to ask but didn’t know which to lead with.

Mikasa reached for the food first, lifting a piece of meat in her fingers and holding it out for Armin. He didn’t take it right away. Instead, he continued to stare at the boy sitting just outside their cell, raking his eyes over the stranger’s features and trying to find a fissure in the earnest expression he offered the prisoners. To find the lie hiding in the eyes staring right back at him.

Even in the dim light of the lanterns scattered throughout the brig, Armin could see just how green they were, how they radiated an inquisitive sincerity that completely took him off guard. This boy was undeniably attractive, and it was unimaginably unnerving.

Armin averted his gaze to Mikasa’s hand. He felt hot suddenly, face flushed and ears burning as he took the food. He tried to ignore the look she was giving him, that brow-raising, mouth-quirking expression she took on every time she knew something someone else didn’t. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and he hated it.

“I have an idea,” Armin whispered, desperate to distract himself. He hoped the pirate couldn’t hear him. Mikasa shot him a questioning glance but reached over and beckoned for Historia to join them. Historia, mouth full of apple peels, inched closer the moment she saw the expression on Armin’s face.

“You need to eat,” Mikasa muttered, giving his shoulder a little nudge where he still leaned against her.

“In a second.” Armin gestured for Historia to lean in closer—the last thing he wanted was for the pirate to hear what he was about to say. He lowered his voice to an almost inaudible mumble. “This guy clearly can’t stand our guard, and vice versa. We might be able to pit them against each other later, distract them, and give ourselves an opportunity to get out of here.”

“We can’t get off the ship.” Mikasa frowned.

“No, but Historia wants to see the captain, right?” Armin shot a pointed glance in Historia’s direction. “Maybe she can find him. Talk to him or something. Convince him to at least let us out of this cage.”

Historia’s eyes brightened a little. She leaned so close now, Armin felt the soft strands of her hair tickling his nose. “How would we do that?”

“Hey. What are you talking about over there?”

Historia whirled around to face the pirate again, who had his hands on the bars now and a thick brow arched high. Armin felt Mikasa stiffen against him, and he searched his mind for a story, some lie that’d dissuade the boy from prying any longer.

“My friends,” he said. “They’re worried about what will happen when they get their periods.”

Historia turned to stare at Armin, hiding her sudden smile from the stranger with the veil of her hair. The pirate’s eyes widened; horror etched into the lines of his face, and Armin knew he’d struck the right nerve. Gesturing to the lidded pot they’d shoved into the far corner of the cell, he continued.

“A piss bucket will only help so much. It won’t stop the flows or clean the messes. What are they supposed to do when—?”

“I’m not the one to ask about that.” The pirate inched away from the cell, pitch rising as the mortification brought a heavier tint to his already alcohol-induced blush. “That’s not—”

“Perhaps you could bring it up to your captain at some point? Or to someone who has the authority to do so?”

The pirate pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, righting the chair Jean had previously abused. “Y-yeah,” he sputtered, taking a seat. “Maybe I can do that.”

Armin could feel Mikasa shaking against him, and he turned to find she’d covered her mouth with her hand. She was laughing. Cracking a tired smile, Armin leaned closer to her and whispered: “We’ll talk more about the plan later.”

* * *

Eren Jaeger was insufferable. Jean surfaced onto the top deck in a flurry of swinging limbs and questionable mutters, fuming over the nerve Eren had to humiliate him in front of the prisoners. Why the bastard felt the need to expose Jean’s punishment like that could only boil down to the rivalry they’d shared over the years they’d known each other. Still, Eren didn’t have to do him quite that dirty—this was an entirely new level of low Jean could not stomach tonight.

He wanted Eren to regret his decision. He wanted to take the night off, to trap Eren down there with the irritating princess until she drove _him_ insane.

“Of all the people to trap me here with. Of all the people she could have yanked from our ship and held here against our wills…” Jean grumbled to himself as he stormed past the pirates eating on the mess deck. He spotted Sasha, mouth still full of food, leaning over to whisper something in Conny’s ear and prompting the latter to snort beer out of his nose as he laughed. Jean rolled his eyes.

Idiots, the lot of them. They were all intolerable idiots. Still, he found himself comforted by their presences occasionally, a small solace granted to him after being forced into the crew. If Ymir’s goal was to torture him into insanity, however, she succeeded the moment she’d decided Eren would come along too.

He spotted her toward the stairs leading to the helm, leaning against the banister and chatting over her own mug of beer. His steps faltered. He could feel the sickening dread churning in the pit of his stomach when he saw who she spoke to: Floch Forster.

Trepidation tightened his throat, and Jean attempted to swallow it loose. Eren might have been insufferable, he thought, but at least he wasn’t terrifying or particularly brutal. In fact, Eren’s naïve tenderness got on Jean’s nerves more than anything else about him.

Jean found he feared few individuals on this ship, but there were a few, like Reiner and Bertholdt, that he absolutely abhorred. They were cruel for cruelty’s sake—they’d made his life particularly miserable during his first few weeks in the crew. But the man speaking to the captain now was somehow worse. Floch Forster was an unpredictable monster hiding behind a heinous, gentle smile. A façade he paraded in the presence of the captain.

Jean was absolutely terrified of him.

Still, Jean was a victim of his own pride—there was no way he’d wander down to the brig and admit defeat now. He’d told Eren he would speak to the captain. That was what he would do. 

“I want a break from watching the prisoners,” he demanded, coming to a halt when he reached Ymir. He refused to meet Floch’s eye. Ymir wasn’t particularly pleasant to speak to herself, but as long as she was here, Jean was safe from the torment Floch could shower over him.

Ymir cupped her ear with her hand, frowning. “Wait. Floch, did you hear something?”

Jean stammered. “I—”

“I thought I felt, like, a rush of air or something, but I’m not quite sure,” Ymir continued.

Jean stared at the captain. Heat flooded his face. He could hear the amusement in Floch’s voice when he responded next: “No, Captain. I heard nothing.”

The two of them began laughing, entertaining themselves at Jean’s expense. He felt the original embarrassment make way for anger, a hot ball in the middle of his stomach that threatened to ignite his veins. If there was one thing Jean resented more than his own pride, it was his temper.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll just go ahead and take my break if you’re going to ignore me.”

He knew the words were a mistake the moment they left his mouth, but he turned to march off anyway. What stopped him were the fingers that wrapped around his wrist and yanked him fiercely back. Wincing against the sharp pain, Jean turned to meet Ymir’s eyes and felt his blood go cold. Any amusement that had been there had disappeared, and all traces of the smile that’d previously danced on her lips had been killed immediately.

“Last I checked, Kirschtein, this was a punishment, not a privilege.” Ymir’s voice was frighteningly steady. Jean felt a chill shoot down his spine and fought against the shudder it threatened to elicit. “As such, what you will do is march your ass back down to the brig and watch those little shits like you were told to do, and you will continue to do so indefinitely now.”

“I only had two days left—” Jean began to protest, but Ymir cut him off.

“Speaking of the prisoners,” she began. “You didn’t leave them down there _alone_, did you?”

Jean’s mouth was dry. He ran his tongue over his lips, parted them in an attempt to answer, but the pain that shot up his arm when she squeezed his wrist again stopped him.

“Have you heard of keelhauling?” Ymir asked.

There was a rushing in Jean’s ears. He could feel the color draining from his face as he attempted a step backward. Ymir still had him in a vice grip, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him and continued. “I have. I’ve never done it before myself. I don’t expect I’ll be very good at it, but—” She shrugged. “—I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” 

“They’re not alone!” The words were out of Jean’s mouth before he could think to do otherwise. He pulled experimentally back, but her hold on his arm didn’t relent. “I left Eren with them.”

Ymir raised an eyebrow. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I go down there to check?”

“You don’t have to do that.” Jean could feel himself beginning to tremble, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “You deserve to stay here and enjoy the party.”

Ymir released his arm so quickly he teetered on the spot. “Send him up here immediately.”

“Yes, Captain.” Jean could hear how high his voice had become—he’d nearly _squeaked_ the words out. He heard Floch cackle out a laugh as he turned to take off across the ship, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to live down in that brig and never show his face above deck again.

Relief washed over him the moment he stepped into the brig. For reasons Jean couldn’t begin to fathom, Eren (gods bless him) had actually remained down with the prisoners. As soon as Eren glanced up at him, however, Jean erected his posture and lifted his chin. He wouldn’t show any signs of his previous fear, nor of his gratitude toward Eren. Not tonight, at least.

“Jaeger,” he called. “You…stayed.”

Eren seemed to deflate the moment the words were out of Jean’s mouth, slumping over with an agitated groan. “Don’t call me by my last name like you’re my superior.”

Jean cleared his throat, pushing a smirk onto his features. “The captain wants to see you.”

Eren stiffened. He ran his palms over his knees, clearly nerve-ridden. “Why?”

Jean didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply pointed toward the stairs with his thumb. Eren shot him an ugly glare but got to his feet anyway, grumbling under his breath. Jean watched as he climbed the stairs, and for a split second, he found himself wanting to thank Eren. Eren would never know it, but he may have just saved Jean’s life, spared him from as terrible a fate as keelhauling.

Jean, however, kept his mouth shut. Instead, he retook his position in the chair, blew his breath out through his nose, and tried to ignore the amused look the princess in the cell shot his way. 

* * *

Eren was trembling long before he reached the captain. Having grown up in the same tiny mariner’s town, he’d known Jean most of his life—he was no stranger to either his short temper or his hubris. Still, Eren hadn’t expected Jean to _actually_ gather up the balls he needed to demand a break from Ymir. The fact that Jean was back in the brig made it clear he hadn’t succeeded, but why did the captain now want to speak with _Eren_, of all people?

Had Jean told her Eren brought scraps of food down to the prisoners without permission, thrown him under the bus to lighten his sentence? As Eren continued to walk the length of the ship, he couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that he was stumbling into his own punishment. The prospect alone scared him sober.

He fought to hide the fear he felt creasing stark lines in his brow as he approached Ymir and did his best to ignore the smirk Floch sent his way. Ever since he’d had the unfortunate privilege of meeting the quartermaster, Eren found Floch’s ability to unnerve the absolute shit out of him worsen with every new interaction. 

Ymir glanced wearily over him when he reached her. He forced his voice past his throat. “You sent for me, Captain?”

“Kirschtein tells me he left you below deck to watch the prisoners while he wandered up here to throw his moronic tantrum.” Ymir’s tone was unreadable as she knocked back the rest of the beer in her hand. “Is this true?”

Eren felt himself relax a little. Relieved the question was more about catching Jean in a lie than about Eren himself, he exhaled. “Yes, Captain.”

His wave of ease was cut short, however, when Ymir’s eyes narrowed in his direction. “And why were you down there in the first place?” she asked. “Don’t lie to me either, Jaeger. You have no talent for it.”

She was right. Eren knew it. “I—” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides in an attempt to quell their shaking. “I thought the prisoners would be hungry, so I brought them food from the party,” he admitted. “Only scraps and unwanted leftovers, though. I swear.”

Ymir had fallen into a terrifying silence. Her expression betrayed no thought or emotion she might have felt, and Eren lowered his gaze to the floor to avoid her gaze. The dread made him feel sick to his stomach.

“They’d already had their evening meal.” Ymir’s voice was firm. Eren felt it like a slap across the face. “But if you’re so goddamn keen to bring them their food, you can continue to do it from here on out until you rot with them for all I care.”

It was too simple, too light a sentence. Eren braced himself internally for whatever horrific threat she planned to throw his way when he least expected. Instead, he wound up thrown for a loop when she waved him off with a flick of her wrist.

“Now, get lost,” she commanded. “I have a party to enjoy.”

Eren bolted in the opposite direction, pulse pounding throughout his body to the point of dizziness. Or perhaps it was the remnants of alcohol in his system that caused him to sway unsteadily as he staggered toward the quarter deck—he wasn’t entirely certain. He couldn’t figure out why Ymir had gone easy on him. Was it simply a matter of catching her at the right moment? Had she felt generous tonight after such a successful plunder? It would bother him the rest of the night, nag at the back of his mind while he lay awake and stared at the ceiling, but he as sure as hell would never ask.

Despite the trepidation he still felt as he trekked through the hall toward his tiny, cramped bedchamber, Eren found a kind of excited triumph tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew Reiner and Bertholdt, knew just how horrible they were and how awfully they would treat the prisoners. And after seeing the three of them locked away himself, after looking into each of their eyes, he didn’t want anyone aside from himself bringing food down to the brig from here on out. 


	4. Chapter 4

Historia jolted awake. Every muscle protested as she rolled onto her side. Her head pounded, her hair fell flat over her face, and she found with no small amount of frustration that she’d lost all sense of time. The thunderous excitement from the party above had lulled after what felt like ages, and the sudden quiet had engulfed the brig in an otherworldly ambience. A kind of noisy silence that had made Historia feel as though she’d been ripped violently from reality, utterly and frighteningly alone.

Left with the rhythmic groaning of the ship’s wooden skeleton as it rocked against the weight of the sea, Historia had finally fallen into a kind of dreamless limbo what felt like mere minutes ago. There was nothing she wanted more than to slip back into it.

It wasn’t until she felt Mikasa stirring behind her that she remembered what had awakened her. The sound of heavy footsteps plodding down the staircase now roused the irritation bristling in her nerve endings, and she growled.

But where the guard sitting outside their cell frowned when he caught sight of the newcomer, Historia found herself relieved. The boy who’d fed them party leftovers the night before trudged into the brig, looking almost as tired as Historia felt. His eyes were half-lidded, dark hair sticking out at odd angles.

He carried another tray in his hands. Historia pushed herself to her knees and scooted closer to the door, trying to get a better look at the contents the pirate carried. Had he brought them something edible again? If so, Historia wondered what she’d have to do to ensure he was the only person in charge of their food from here on out.

She physically deflated when her eyes fell on the same stale slop Reiner and his friend had brought them yesterday. Mikasa sighed almost inaudibly beside her, and Historia turned to catch the disheartened expression on her face. She noticed the dark circles under Mikasa’s eyes—she couldn’t tell if the lantern light in the brig made them appear worse or if they truly were this stark against Mikasa’s pallor. She looked like she hadn’t gotten any sleep at all.

Historia was about to ask Mikasa this herself when Armin caught her eye. He didn’t look good either, face just as pale and blond hair in disarray. Historia hoped it really was the lighting that painted them so sickly—did she look just as awful as her friends did?

Armin was sitting up now too, blue eyes wide and bloodshot, exhausted yet attentive, and Historia wondered if it had anything to do with the pirate approaching their cell.

“Did you sleep at all?” Historia whispered to him.

Armin shook his head, but the excitement she saw in his expression didn’t falter as he leaned close to her. “I have a plan. Be ready.”

Historia shot him a questioning look. He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he nodded toward the boy sliding the tray under their cell, and she chose not to question him further. She understood the message: _Don’t miss the opportunity. _

“I’m sorry it’s not like last night,” the pirate said, his voice low. Apologetic. Though Historia couldn’t read people as skillfully as Armin or Mikasa, she detected sincerity in his expression, and it absolutely baffled her.

A few feet away, the guard groaned in his chair. “Don’t fucking _apologize_ to them.” Jean rubbed his hands over his own exhausted face. “That just makes things difficult. And weird.”

“Shut up.” The pirate, still crouched in front of the cell, shot a glare over his shoulder to the guard as Mikasa reached for the tray.

Armin pushed himself to his feet without warning. Too quickly. Historia reached out reflexively when she saw him sway a little, but he continued forward anyway. She wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing the moment he grabbed the waste bucket they’d used to relieve themselves from the far corner. She thought better of it. Whatever he was up to, it was part of some plan he’d concocted.

Moreover, the only coherent question her brain could conjure up that moment was: _How the fuck is he carrying it without gagging at the smell? _

“This is getting full,” Armin spoke, glancing back and forth between the pirates as he held the bucket out in front of him. Even the more personable of the two took a step back. “Is there any way one of you could empty it?”

The room answered with an embarrassed silence. Historia almost cracked a smile purely from the surprise of it all. Around them, the ship emitted a low, creaking complaint.

Jean acted first. Sneering, he pushed himself to his feet, marching over to the cell and grumbling under his breath as he fiddled with the lock. Snatching the bucket from Armin, he immediately slammed the door back with a startling _clang_. Even Mikasa flinched a little at the sound, but Armin barely blinked.

“Here.” Jean thrust the bucket into the other pirate’s arms. “I’m sure I can trust you to dump this overboard and bring it back here, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The other pirate took another step back. “I don’t take orders from _you_.” In one swift movement, he practically _tossed_ the bucket back to Jean, prompting the latter to catch it for fear of otherwise spilling the contents across the floor.

A smile tugged at Historia’s mouth as she realized what Armin had done. Preoccupied with their argument, neither of the pirates seemed to realize Jean had forgotten to lock the cell door.

Pushing herself unsteadily to her feet, Historia crossed the cell and took her place at Armin’s side, eyeing him in her periphery. She didn’t dare make any further movements, however—she would stand here until Armin gave her some sort of signal. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. The more these particular pirates continued with their moronic fighting, the more she realized she had nothing to be afraid of. Not in _their_ presence, at least.

“Oh. But I’m not to leave the prisoner’s sides,” Jean was saying, smirking smugly. “Captain’s orders.”

“What about when _you_ have to take a shit?”

Jean faltered. “I—”

“If you’re allowed to leave them for minutes at a time to grab food and take care of your own business,” the other pirate said, stepping back when Jean held the bucket out to him again, “you can take care of theirs, I’m sure.”

“_Please_,” Jean growled.

“I’ll stay and watch them until you get back.”

“Just fucking _do it_.”

Historia felt Armin’s knuckles brush over hers. It was a quick gesture, subtle and gentle, but she knew immediately what it meant. Throwing her weight against the door, Historia launched herself from the cell and, buzzing with a sudden burst of adrenaline, made a beeline for the stairs just as Armin shouted behind her. “Mikasa!”

“Hey!” Jean’s voice resounded through the brig, and for a moment Historia faltered. Bracing herself for the feeling of an iron grip around her wrist, she wondered if it had been foolish to think this plan would work, if they would fail miserably instead. When she turned around, however, she realized she should’ve had more faith in Armin.

Jean wasn’t chasing after her. Neither was the other pirate, for that matter. Armin and Mikasa had slipped from the cell as well and stolen the pirates’ attentions. Historia watched as Armin lost his footing, winced as he hit the floor hard on his hands and knees, and for a moment she was tempted to take a step forward and make sure he was okay. Armin was lithe—it was unlike him to trip over himself so quickly, even exhausted. Moreover, Mikasa seemed content to allow the other pirate to goad her back into the cell, despite the fact that she could easily take both the young men down in a matter of seconds.

Armin’s wide eyes met Historia’s as Jean hauled him roughly to his feet, and she realized what they were doing. This wasn’t an escape mission. This was a distraction, a means to buy her enough time to slip away unseen and find the captain.

She ran.

* * *

The light filtering into the galley from the stairwell was soft, almost misty. Despite the dank smell and soft scuffle of rats scurrying among the cannons, Historia found a kind of curious calm in the illuminated dust particles dancing in the morning sunbeams. Heart pounding almost painfully in her chest, she crept forward, thankful for the way the ship’s natural soundtrack seemed to disguise her footsteps.

She wanted to sprint, wanted to burst into the sunlight above deck with passionate triumph, but she would do no such thing. At least, not until _after_ she located the captain’s quarters. If someone caught her now, they’d replace the current guard with someone who wasn’t such a hothead, and she’d never be able to speak to the captain. Now was her only chance to find him.

The captain’s quarters was located at the stern—Historia had very limited knowledge regarding a ship’s typical blueprint, but she did know this much. She also knew the brig was at the stern as well, only decks below, and her tuition told her she’d find the hall into the quarterdeck when she reached the main deck. She had to keep climbing upward.

Shadows appeared at the top of the stairs, cutting into the beams of light guiding her way. Breath catching in her throat, Historia ducked behind one of the rusted, volatile cannons before the footsteps reached her ears.

“What I wouldn’t give to be asleep right now.” A voice spoke dully, thick with lethargy.

Holding her breath, Historia dared to shift her position slightly, pressing her back against the cold metal of the deadly weapon and peering around it. Two young men trudged through the galley on their way toward the descending staircase from which she’d entered. Both struggled under the weight of small crates stacked in their arms, and Historia wondered if they contained leftover food from the party. Her stomach growled.

The pirate closest to her was shorter than his dark-haired companion, his own hair shaved impressively close to his head. When he coughed, Historia recognized his voice as the original speaker. He yawned. “How did _we_ get stuck working the early shift?”

The other pirate shrugged, the movement a little awkward against the crates he attempted to adjust in his arms. Historia could see the freckles on his face even from where she hid. “Might as well make the most of it,” he offered. “We’ll be able to sleep later.”

“_Maybe_.”

Historia watched as they trekked toward the stairway, listening to their footsteps and itching to move again. Every second she spent dawdling in the galley was another one closer to the moment Jean would emerge from the same flight, teeth bared and ready to haul her back down to the brig. And when he did, she thought, she’d better be long gone. 

* * *

Eren was a hair’s breadth away from slipping into a full-blown panic. Every moment he and Jean spent glancing under tables, maneuvering among the shadows of the cannons, even searching within the crates that’d housed last night’s food only served to worsen the fear tightening in his chest. It was getting hard to breathe, harder now that they’d found themselves in the cargo hold. The dust and mildew thickening the stale air made Eren’s lungs feel like they were burning.

It hadn’t taken them long to lock the other two prisoners back in the cell, yet it was as though the princess had disappeared entirely. As though she’d ceased to exist. For a fleeting second, the scenario that she’d actually jumped overboard crossed Eren’s mind, and he attempted to quash it before it could wreak any additional havoc on his mental state.

“This is your fault,” Jean mumbled from the stack of crates he hunted through.

Eren was too hysterical _not_ to whirl on him immediately. “How is this _my_ fault?”

“If you hadn’t been there to distract me—”

“Oh, if _I_ hadn’t—” Eren yanked the lid off a barrel and swung it in Jean’s direction, but he didn’t strike him. “—If _you_ hadn’t been so quick to pawn off your responsibility on me, you would’ve remembered to lock the cell!”

“Getting rid of the prisoners’ _shit_ isn’t _my _responsibility!”

“If I hadn’t been down there when they asked about it, you would’ve had to do it anyway…” Eren trailed off the moment it hit him. They had orchestrated it, the entire ordeal. If Eren hadn’t been down there when the prisoners asked about the waste bucket, he and Jean wouldn’t have gotten into an argument—Jean would have grabbed the offending item and locked the cell instead. The entire situation was…deliberate.

The prisoners had done this on purpose.

“Is there a problem here?”

Eren nearly jumped out of his skin at the low, familiar voice booming behind him. The barrel lid slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor much too loudly, and he winced before turning around slowly. He knew it was Reiner behind him, but it didn’t stop the ill dread from snaking down his spine when his eyes met the blue ones staring down at him. There was something in the quirk of Reiner’s mouth and the downward curve of his brow that screamed both irritation and intrigue, and Eren knew it meant nothing but trouble for him and Jean.

“Not at all.” Eren spoke quickly, fingers flexing at his sides. He wanted nothing more than for Reiner to merely buy the lie and leave them alone.

Unsurprisingly, Reiner remained where he stood and gestured in Jean’s direction instead. “Kirschtein’s supposed to be in the brig with the prisoners. You want to tell me why he’s not?”

Eren opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again. His stomach turned more every second he spent scrambling for a believable lie. It wouldn’t work. Even if he managed a convincing enough excuse, his delivery would expose the truth right away. The captain had meant it last night when she’d said he had no talent for lying.

“Listen, Reiner.” Jean’s voice cut through Eren’s thoughts, putting a halt to whatever condemning words he might have uttered. “One of the prisoners had some _awful_ diarrhea. We’ve been looking for cleaning supplies to take care of the mess.”

Reiner’s eyebrows shot up. In any other setting, Eren probably would have laughed aloud at the nature of the story, but the lie rolled so naturally from Jean’s tongue, he couldn’t help but feel impressed.

“Inside empty barrels?”

Jean leaned against one of the crates. “We’re looking for food, too. Thought maybe we could find some herbs or something to, you know, resolve the issue in case it gets worse.”

Reiner seemed to consider this. “And why not go to Ymir about it?”

Eren’s eyes widened in surprise. Hardly any of the crew dared refer to the captain by her name aloud—Eren had trouble even doing so in his own head, for that matter. The fact that Reiner felt himself high enough on the ship’s totem pole not to fear the captain, even further to address the other pirates by their surnames, only made Eren dislike him more.

Jean didn’t meet Eren’s stare as he responded. “I didn’t want to bother her again after she chewed me out last night. Not if I could try fixing this myself first.”

“And what about you?” Reiner turned to Eren. “Why couldn’t you ask for him?”

“Because I…she punished me last night too.” Eren heard himself sputtering, could hear just how panicked he sounded and knew there was no way Reiner didn’t detect the same. 

“I see,” Reiner said, smirking. He clapped his hands so suddenly, it startled Eren. “Well! Maybe we should all go together, then, if you don’t have the balls to do it yourselves. Or, better yet, how ‘bout I just relay the message to her for you?”

Eren felt himself go pale at the thought. Even Jean was rendered momentarily speechless. Reiner knew, knew they were lying—if he went to the captain about this situation, it would make everything drastically more nightmarish for them. It would be less than ideal if anyone else alerted the captain before either Eren or Jean could, would reflect poorly enough upon them that they’d even lost the princess in the first place. If Reiner managed to let slip that they’d sent him to _lie_? The two of them would be dead before nightfall.

“I’ll do it,” Eren spoke up, stepping forward. His voice sounded much too high-pitched in his own ears. “I’ll tell the captain…what happened.”

“See to it that you do.”

Eren slipped around Reiner, heart clamoring in his throat as he made a beeline for the door. Nearly tripping over his own feet as he rushed up the stairs, he just barely heard Reiner laugh before addressing Jean. “And, Kirschtein. Get back to the brig.”

* * *

Ymir stood, groggy, raking her gaze over the reflection staring at her from the cracked and frosted glass hanging from her wall. Over squinty eyes still puffy and bloodshot from too much alcohol and too little sleep, over the countless freckles scattered over bronzed skin. She knew this face more than any other, blinked blearily at it every morning as she fought the urge to crawl back into bed. Still, there were days like this one when she found she barely recognized it.

She moved slowly, mechanically, as she grabbed for the old ribbon on her desk and tied back what bits of her short dark hair would obey. She smoothed a heavy hand over the rest that hung down over the sides of her face, hoping to resurrect what pieces of visual dignity she could.

Maybe it didn’t matter, she thought, the way she looked to her crew. Maybe none of it mattered. But with the fear her dominating façade instilled in those under her command came that tiny inkling of warmth flickering somewhere under her diaphragm. Purpose. She couldn’t find it anywhere else—when she looked at herself the way she did now, sleep-laden and vulnerable in the early morning glow seeping in from the windows, she didn’t see it. So she created it.

Running the black pencil under her eyes gave them a deadly frame, added an intimidating edge to their otherwise soft caramel color. Leaving her shirts hanging overnight to ensure they contracted no wrinkles, though they still bore the unavoidable stains a life on the sea entailed, granted her the kind of gilded superiority only physical appearance could fabricate. It was with this motivation now that, despite the dull headache thrumming behind her eyes, she dressed herself.

The knock on the door surprised her. The sun’s golden rays were only just beginning to filter into the quarters and cast their bright beams across the floor—Floch knew better than to disturb her this early, but he was also the only person she’d authorized to approach the cabin before noon.

Fumbling futilely with the laces of her boot, Ymir grunted, planted her foot on the floor and straightened her posture. “Enter!”

She waited until she heard the hinges whine before whipping around, mouth parting to demand an explanation from her quartermaster. Then clamped it shut.

Teeth clicking audibly against each other, Ymir found herself momentarily taken off guard. The girl who stood in the doorway was a tiny little thing, thin and slight in height. She was a spectacle not unlike a shipwreck—her flaxen hair fell in tangles over her shoulders, hanging low over large, angry blue eyes. Her small nose wrinkled as she glared up at Ymir, her once vibrant clothes muted by the dust and dirt matting most of the fabric. She was a tattered, frazzled, wood nymph of a princess, and she was exasperatingly beautiful.

She was also _not_ supposed to be here.

Quelling the anger and surprise heating her face, Ymir stretched her lips into an unpleasant smirk and offered a dramatic bow of mock respect. “Oh, Your _Highness_,” she nearly sang. “To what do I owe the pleasure of finally meeting you?” 

Princess Historia’s brow twitched. “You’re the captain?”

“The one and only.” Ymir took a step forward, hyperaware of the untied laces dragging behind her left foot. If the princess noticed, however, she didn’t show it. Instead, a furious scowl that mirrored Ymir’s own building frustration contorted her pretty features as she took a daring step forward as well. She finally let the door swing shut behind her with a kind of confidence that angered and amazed Ymir all at once.

“I’m tired of the way your people have been treating me and my friends.” Historia’s voice was remarkably steady. “I demand you let us out of the brig immediately and feed us proper meals.”

An incredulous laugh escaped Ymir’s throat, and she had to fight the urge to cover her mouth. Feigning surprise, she placed a hand on her chest and widened her eyes instead. “Is that _so?_” she asked.

Historia didn’t answer, but she didn’t budge either. She continued to glare with an intensity that Ymir neither anticipated nor knew how to thwart. Ymir had expected Princess Historia to be a delicate, frail creature—a tiny, unthreatening feather of a brat demanding respect she didn’t deserve—and while half her expectations had been met, Ymir couldn’t help but feel both infuriated and impressed at the girl’s startling temerity.

She refused to display either.

Tapping a finger against her chin, Ymir began to pace the width of the cabin. “Okay. Allow me to offer a sort of…proposition.” She clicked the heels of her boots against the floorboards with deliberate force. “I’ll let you and your little friends go when your father arrives to collect you with my goddamn ransom money.”

The moment she spoke the words, Ymir knew she’d struck the right chord. Historia made a strangled sound as her words stuck in her throat, and when they did come out, they did so with significantly less poise. “_You’re holding us for ransom?_” Her voice was shrill, shaky and piercing. “How _dare_ you treat us like property? Like _commodities_ to be sold? Your entire lifestyle is _disgusting_ and _barbaric_.”

“I don’t give a damn what you think about my lifestyle.” Ymir laughed intentionally this time. Calculated.

Maybe you should,” Historia fired back. “You can’t possibly believe my father will simply give you his money and go, can you? I highly doubt you’ll find the situation this funny when _you_ are the one behind bars and I’m on the other side.”

Ymir refused to let her smirk falter, refused to allow the girl’s words get a rise out of her, no matter how badly her head was pounding now. The princess was playing a game Ymir had mastered years ago. Clearing her throat, she eased herself back against the front of her desk, crossing one ankle over the other and letting her bootlaces swing.

“Funny you mention bars when _you’re_ the one supposed to be behind them right now,” she said.

Historia hesitated just long enough for Ymir to notice. “Your guard forgot to lock the cell and I ran out.” She spoke steadily again, straightened her petite posture, but Ymir already knew it wasn’t the entire truth. “You have some real idiots working for you. I hope you know that.”

This, however, _was_ the truth. If there was any topic on which both Ymir and the irksome little princess standing before her could agree, it was the severe and undeniable stupidity the bulk of her crewmembers possessed.

So when the three knocks sounded from the door and Ymir called for the person to enter, when she turned to find one of those forespoken idiots standing in the doorway, Ymir actually laughed aloud at the timing of it all. 

* * *

Eren’s fingers twitched against the doorknob. For the second time that morning, eyes flitting back and forth between the captain and the princess standing before him, he felt that dizzying rush as the blood left his face. He was supposed to deliver word of the princess’ escape first, to attempt softening whatever horrific blow the captain might inflict upon him or Jean after hearing the news. But he’d missed the chance entirely—the ironic laugh that flew from the captain’s mouth the moment she saw him only worsened the sick foreboding crawling beneath his skin.

This was not how his confession was supposed to unfold.

Eren moved before anyone else could, crossing over to the princess and grabbing for her. His head swam as he scrambled for the right words. “I’m so sorry, Captain,” he said. “I was coming to…I was trying to tell you…” Historia made to yank herself from his grasp, and he tightened his grip on her upper arm. He cleared his throat. “I’ll take care of this. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“It’d better not.” Ymir tilted her head, voice frighteningly calm. She narrowed her eyes in his direction, yet Eren could find no malice in them, no anger. It unnerved him to no end. “Can I trust you’re capable enough to take this little brat back to her cell? Or will you require some assistance?”

“I’ll be fine, Captain.” Eren attempted to nod, but Historia had begun struggling against him, taking him momentarily off guard. As he grabbed her other arm with his free hand, he found himself thanking the gods above that she was so small. The last thing he needed was to screw up again after this offense.

“Oh, and if anything like this happens again,” Ymir added, voice rising, and Eren braced himself for some threat against his own life, “your friends are dead.”

Eren found himself both horrified and relieved. Not only had Ymir been addressing the princess and not himself, but the words also had an immediate effect. Historia relaxed against him suddenly, allowed him to pull her from the cabin without resistance. Still, he knew just as well as she did that Ymir wasn’t bluffing, and the anxiety-inducing calm with which the captain had sent him away had him convinced he wasn’t off the hook yet, that she still had some sort of terrifying punishment planned for him. 

“Thank you,” he murmured as the door swung shut behind them. “She isn’t kidding. Just protect yourself and your friends, okay?”

Though Historia had ceased her struggling, he didn’t dare loosen his hold on her in case she was secretly awaiting another chance to bolt. Her blue eyes peered up at him through the hair hanging over her face for a moment, then lowered to the floor. The guilt this sent gnawing at the heart still pounding in Eren’s chest made him mentally kick himself—perhaps Jean was right when he said Eren was too soft for a life on the Warhammer, that if he wanted to survive here he’d need to toughen up his own skin. To push away the empathetic hurt he felt every time he looked at the prisoners.

It wasn’t going to happen, though. Eren realized this much as he continued escorting Historia back down toward the brig, ignoring the eyes of those they passed along the way. And maybe, he wondered with no small amount of trepidation, the captain knew it too.


End file.
